Run Through the Raindrops
by Sword of the Shadow
Summary: Insane. Crazy. Touched. Cracked. Stark raving mad. They're the only words to describe Harry, but the Dark Lord's new found interest could change that forever.... SLASH LVHP
1. Wide Open Door of Insanity

Title: Run Through the Raindrops

Author: Sword of the 

Disclaimer: Standard

Pairing: HP/LV(TR)

Warnings: Slash

Summary: Mad. Insane. Lost. Crazy. Cracked. That's what Harry is. But suddenly, the Dark Lord had a new found interest him, one that could change him forever.

Rating: PG-13, possibly R

Chapter One

Wide Open Door of Insanity

Harry shivered from the cold, pulling his legs close to his chest and holding them there for warmth, futile as he knew his actions would be. The remains of Dudley's hand-me-down castoffs were soiled and torn and not quite deserving of even being called rags. His skin was streaked with dirt and blood and sweat, his eyes puffy and glistening from unshed tears.

His long ebony hair, matted and thick, was as uncontrollable as ever, tangling down to his shoulders. Bright emerald eyes peered nearsightedly at his surroundings, his glasses lost long ago. Without the thick panes of glass his eyes seemed so much more expressive, showing fully the depth of his misery and torment.

He frowned, peering at the rough scratch marks on the wall and trying awkwardly to remember. How long had it been? Days, weeks, years? He could not recall the last time he had been outside of the confines of his cell.

His chapped, pale lips curved upward in a mischevious smile, eyes half-lidded and face relaxed. "Poor little Potter, all alone," he sang, eyes glowing with an insane light, "trapped in the place he once called home."

He giggled at his rather elementary rhyme, the sound grating and harsh after his vocal cords had grown rough from endless disuse. He gazed up at the ceiling, eyes fixated on some flickering picture that only he could see. "Here he stays inside his cell, wishing that he was in hell."

Harry stretched his hands high above him, splaying his fingers wide and focusing on them with huge green eyes. He waved them about for a few moments before dropping his arms abruptly and focusing them on the skeletal remains across from him. "Here he sits among the dead, listening to voices in his head."

He crawled over to the skeleton, lurching about on all fours. He leaned back, sitting on his hind legs and regarding the bones calmly. Empty eye sockets studied him silently, crooked teeth slightly agape in a last ditch effort to draw struggling breaths. He ran a pale, long-finge across the skeleton's face as if brushing aside a stray lock of invisible hair.

"The dead are the ones who really know, trapped as they are in their world below." He tilted his head to one side as if enquireing of the skeleton is this were truly so.

"A world which Potter wants to join, but for passage he has no coin." He sulked at this bit, eyes glazed over at the thought.

"How will he cross the River Styx? Perhaps he'll come up with some clever tricks?" He shut one eye firmly and widened the other as much as possible, appearing like those of some ethereal nymph.

He leaned forward and kissed the skeleton gently on the forehead. He drew back slightly to contemplate the skeleton once more, hands cupping its bony cheeks gently and thumbs caressing softly.

He did not hear the noise that screeching of his cell door opening into the rest of the world once more. The hinges were rusty and unoiled, not having been used in long years. The wood door itself was beginning to rot and would soon be in need of a replacement.

Two black figures, faces hidden behind dark masks and bodies cloaked by flowing ebony robes regarded the shriveled, disheveled figure before them silently.

"Potter wants to see the sun, just once more 'fore his life is done." Harry looked at the low ceiling of the room pitifully, willing the bright beams of light to shine through the thick stone and illuminate his world of shadows and darkness.

"Nothing left for which to live, no thing left for him to give." He began to play a of pat-a-cake with the skeleton, delighting in the simple childhood which he had never really had the chance to enjoy before.

"He's even crazier than the ones in Azkaban," the shorter figure whispered disdainfully, a faint sneer evident in his condescending tone. Harry whipped around to face the voice, eyes widening at the sight of another person. He had not had anyone to talk to besides the apparations and hallucinations that came to him occasionally.

"People come to see the boy, maybe they'll bring him a toy!" he cried out joyfully, arms outstretched as if waiting for something to be placed in them.

"You know, Potter, I remember the day you were put in here. You were screaming that you'd never break, no matter what was done to you." The man leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms casually, bringing one leg up to rest against the wall.

"Potter doesn't recall the day, try as hard as he may."

"Do you always speak in rhymes now, Potter?"

"Words are simply a thing for fools, ones who often die in duels."

The shorter figure turned to his partner, cocking his head to one side. "Did that make any sense at all to you?"

"He's stark raving mad, he is," the man responded with just the slightest hint of an uncultured twang to his voice, almost covered up by years of practice. "Ne'er be right in the head again, if yeh ask me."

"Perhaps his head is in the left, now that he is completely bereft," Harry suggested, smiling sunnily.

The shorter man chortled, amused at the words. "Can't imagine what the Dark Lord wants with him. The only thing he's good for is a laugh and a punching bag." He punctuated these words with a swift kick to the ribs.

Harry merely giggled, enjoying the sensation. "Big bad man gives him a kick, Potter will beat him with a stick."

The taller man moved towards the young man as well. "Best get him to Master now. We're not supposed to damage him or we'll soon be joining him."

"Alright," the shorter man agreed reluctantly, hauling up the emaciated Harry from the floor.

"Don't take him away from his only friend, or his mind can never mend!" Harry pleaded, struggling to rejoin the skeleton. He was light and skinny and weak, however, and was easily overpowered by the single man.

He fought all the way through the dark stone corridors, heaped with bits of crumbled rocks that came from obvious holes in the wall. No attempt at repairs had been made, and even the castle itself seemed to give up the effort as futile. Dust coated the floor thickly, the heavy treads of the small group stirring up darkly glittering swirls of the stuff until it hovered in the air before and behind them. Somehow it made them seem like they were moviing through a vicuous liquid, one where moving too quickly could be the death of them all.

"Potter says to leave and go, Potter's trying to tell you no!" he shrieked at the two men, who simply ignored him and continued on their way. "Stupid men and their stupid lord, nothing more than a stupid horde."

The taller man gave an exasperated groan and, with a quick flick of his wrist, held his wand in his left hand. "Silencio!"

"Idiot men with their idiot sticks, not working are their idiot tricks."

The two men stopped, staring at their captive in awe. "He shouldn't be able to do that!" the taller man complained, dismayed that his spell had failed. "No one can throw off a hex like tha' without a wand! Can't be done!"

The other simply clucked his tongue and gave off the impression of sarcastically rolling his eyes, even though they could not be seen. "He obviously did, didn't he?"

"But he shouldn't've been-" He was sharply cut off with a curt gesture.

"This is Potter, you fool. He's more powerful than Dumbledore."

"I know tha', but he still should be weakened. The Dementors have been at him once every couple of days and it's almost a legend 'ow he can't stand them."

He was answered with a short, one shouldered shrug. "He's already proven himself to be easily adaptable to just about anything his destiny throws his way. Growing somewhat resistant to the Dementors isn't all that hard to picture."

"It's still not possible!" he argued, huffing slightly in annoyance.

The other merely made a sweep of his hand that indicated that the other could believe whatever he wished. "It's all really speculation, anyway. Now I suggest we bring him before our master before he grows impatient."

The cloaked man resettled Harry in his arms and trailed after his companion, muttering the entire time about how hard he worked for so little reward.

Harry was shoved roughly to his knees in the midst of the Great Hall.

Gone were the banners from the four Houses, the great long tables, and the air of general contentment that had once permeated from the grand stone room. The charms on the ceiling had been left to fade, leaving the rafters dark and gloomy, red eyes of birds and bats peering down eerily at the assembled humans from them.

The only things that remained unchanged were the raised dais and the grand size of the room.

A magnificent throne, constructed entirely out of yew wood with jade inlays, drew the eye to it immediately upon entering. It was here that Voldemort held complete sway; here that he received reports and gave orders and ran the world.

He lounged there now, legs stretched out before him and long fingers tapping against his chin idly. This was not the man that Harry had fought before.

"Who are you?" he asked, eyes narrowing. "He'll be mad if you sit in his throne."

"What's this?" Voldemort asked of the two men. "How dare you bring this ungrateful piece of filth before me?" He reached for his wand, prompting hasty bows and stumbled explanations from the men.

"This is Potter, milord, you asked to see him, and-"

"Potter? Surely Potter has more... fight in him."

"This is him, milord. He's quite insane."

"I can tell that," Voldemort snapped impatiently. Then, turning to Harry, he asked, "What are you waiting for?", beckoning for the boy to come foreward with a crooked finger.

Harry skipped up the stone steps, "What are you doing in the throne? He won't like it. Oh, he won't like it at all. Lucius Malfoy tried to sit there once. He's dead now."

"I sit here because it is my rightful place."

"Oh." Harry shrugged. "So you killed him?"

"Hardly."

Harry peered closely at the man seated before him. His hair was thick and black, mostly pulled back into a low ponytail but tendrils escaping into his violet and crimson eyes. He had fine, elegant features, and a smirk permanently settled on his lips.

"Tom!" Harry greeted jovially. "It's been such a long time! I'm sorry about that Basilisk of yours, but you see, it was going to kill me-"

He stopped when Voldemort began to laugh.

Voldemort grabbed his chin with firm fingers, forcing Harry to look up at him. Gingerly, almost tenderly, he brushed oily black locks away from emerald eyes. "You'll be such a pretty prize, Potter, once you're cleaned up a bit."

Harry just blinked at him, uncomprehending.

"Have him cleaned up. I'll see him after he's done."


	2. Swinging In the Breeze

Here it is at last, the next installment. All the reviews were brilliant, and I appreciate them all! Unfortunately, I don't have the time or space to post responses in the chapter, so if you would like a response, leave your e-mail in your review and I'll get back to you.

Freshly scrubbed and dressed in a plain, clean black robe, Harry was escorted in front of Lord Voldemort. He pulled at the sleeves of the robe anxiously; after so long in rags, the stiff fabric was itchy and uncomfortable.

Voldemort sat behind a large desk, elegantly carved with serpents twining up and down the sides. A long, elegant finger tapped against his lips, examining his prisoner with lidded eyes.

For some inexplicable reason, Harry had changed only for the better due to his incarceration. After years away from sunlight, the boy was unbelievably pale. As beautiful as he might be, however, his mind was damaged.

Voldemort was determined to find out just how deep the cracks of insanity ran.

"Did you enjoy your stay, Mr. Potter?" Voldemort began.

Green eyes regarded him solemnly and a sliver of tongue appeared between his lips as if Harry were contemplating this matter most deeply. "I'm hungry," he responded after a moment of heavy silence.

"But the room was nice. It could have had a better view."

Voldemort stood up and peered directly into the boy's face, but he could discern no lie. Merlin, he was insane.

"How are you doing, Tom?" Harry asked politely. "It's been a while since I've seen you. You sure look a lot different." Harry nodded as if this were a remarkable observation. "Do you like Quidditch? Ron and I were talking about it just the other day, and we decided that maybe you wouldn't be so evil if you played Quidditch."

"And when did you see this Ron?"

"Oh, he visits me every week or so. Hermione does too. Dumbledore doesn't come anymore though, not since I told him to go away. He's mean."

"Indeed."

Suddenly, Harry clutched at his head and shook it furiously. "What... where am I?" he asked, looking around quickly. His hand made a quick flipping motion. "Where's my wand?" He finally noticed Voldemort, standing before him with a bemused expression.

"Shit!" he yelled, rolling to one side and coming up in a crouch behind an antique chair. "What the hell have you done to them?"

"To who, Mr. Potter?"

His eyebrows drew inward and his lips drew back in an angry snarl. "You know damn well who I'm talking about, Riddle. Where are Hermione and Ron and Dumbledore?"

"They're dead."

"Wha... what?"

"They've been dead for over five years now, I believe. As for where you are, you're in Hogwarts."

"This isn't Hogwarts," Harry denied fiercely. "Hogwarts would never fall to you." Harry paused, Voldemort's information running over again in his head. "Five years? Five damn years?"

"Your language certainly hasn't improved in those five years."

"To hell with my language; I want to know what the... what's going on."

A fine brow arched questioningly. "You were defeated, Mr. Potter. That's what happened. And you have been my prisoner for five years. Your friends are dead, or enslaved, and I rule the world."

"We... lost...?" Harry's eyes grew incredibly large. "But... but the prophecy..." Voldemort merely shook his head, trying to hide his pleasure. "Five years? How could I forget five years?"

"It's quite simple, Mr. Potter. You're insane."

"I'm not bloody insane! This is all a hallucination! It's impossible for you to rule the entire world!"

"I own all the parts that matter, anyway. The rest will fall soon enough. The resistance movements can not stand against my might."

"So there is a rebellion. You haven't won yet."

"Oh, I have, Mr. Potter," Voldemort hissed, stroking the pale cheek with long fingers. "I have you."


	3. Nursery Rhymes

**Here's an update! I know it's pitifully short, and I apologize, but at least it's something, right? Anyway, thanks for all the reviews and everything!**

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Harry trembled, his breathing quick and erratic. Part of him wanted to lean into the soft touch, his nerves leaping in excitement at human contact for the first time in five years. Another part of him was disgusted, shuddering with revulsion and the need to withdraw as far as possible. 

His body froze, but his mind was frantically trying to come up with something, anything. His scar was burning fiercely, breaking his attempts at concentration. His shoulders trembled, his hands shaking with minute tremors.

He moaned, half in ecstasy and half in pain, hating himself for showing weakness and yet unable to resist any longer.

Voldemort smirked lazily and placed a hand on either side of Harry's head, drawing the boy towards him slowly. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss against the lightning bolt scar on Harry's forehead, smiling to himself as Harry twitched uncontrollably and slumped backwards against the wall.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked in a breathless voice as soon as Voldemort pulled away, falling all the way to the floor as his limbs abandoned him.

"I'm conquering you, Harry." Voldemort smiled at the confused look on the boy's face, reveling in his victory. "I'm going to break you apart into so many pieces you won't know what is what. And when I'm done, I'm going to put you back together again however I please."

Harry giggled. "Harry Potter sat on a wall," he declared solemnly, emerald eyes impossibly wide. "Harry Potter had a great fall. Voldemort and all of his men couldn't put Potter together again!" He clapped his hands together joyfully, grinning with pride at his rhyme.

"Harry," Voldemort warned in a low voice, eyes narrowing at Harry's sudden shift, "pretending to be insane will not save you."

"Yes master!" Harry agreed, throwing himself against the floor so hard that Voldemort could hear his bones snap. "Anything you say master!"

Voldemort scowled darkly, kicking at the prostrate boy. "This isn't at al satisfying, Potter. I have no desire to see you kow tow for me when you have no idea what you're truly doing." He kicked at Harry again, glaring as the boy immediately scurried away and began humming to himself in the corner.

"I have to find a way to return his sanity," Voldemort mused aloud, watching Harry's antics intently.

"Oh Potter, you rotter, oh what have you done?" Harry sang quietly, hands moving in an intricate dance in time to the ditty, "You're killing off students you think it's good fun!"

"I know you're in there, Harry. You're just hiding from me, aren't you?" Voldemort supported his head with one hand, leaning forward to observe Harry more closely.

"Harry, Harry, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? With Whomping Willows and painful Crucios and Death Eaters all in a row."

Voldemort stood up and cautiously took a step forward, breathing silently. Harry didn't notice him at all.

"Weasley is our King! Weasley is our king! He can not guard a single ring; Weasley is our King!"

Voldemort moved closer.

"Harry Potter sat on a log, calmly eating his chocolate frogs. Down came a snake and fright it did make, killing off Potter's dog."

Voldemort was directly behind Harry now, and still undetected.

"Little Potter had a bird, had a bird, had a bird! Little Potter had a bird with feathers white as snow!"

Voldemort began snaking his arms forward.

"Followed him to war one day, war one d-" Harry's voice cut off sharply and he made a gurgling noise in his throat. Voldemort tightened his grip, pleased to feel Harry struggle against him.

"You effing bastard!" Harry squeaked with the last of his breath, kicking feebly.

Voldemort released him instantly. "Very good Harry!" he praised, patting the dark-haired boy on the head.

Harry gasped for breath on all fours, shuddering from the pain of Voldemort's touch and struggling to his feet. "What the hell do you think you're effing doing?"

"I'm proving that you're not truly insane. All you're doing is retreating inside yourself. And I'm not going to let you do that anymore. When I told you I was going to win, I meant it. You'll stay sane, but you'll wish you weren't.

Harry gulped, the gravity of the situation finally hitting him.

This time, there would be no escape.


	4. And So We've Come to This

So... I'll bet that everyone is wondering where I've been. Well, I've been sick. I only just received an actual diagnosis of what is wrong with me this week; I've been a year with muscle and joint pain, exhaustion, and migraines. Not fun. Anyway, they know what's wrong with me now (fibromyalgia) so they can treat the symptoms. It's nice to know I'm not crazy.

Anyway, what with this and that, and suffering grades, and switching schools, I've not been in much of a mood to write. But I couldn't abandon fanfiction, no atter how much I've tried. Unfortunately, my computer died, and everything was lost. This chapter is absolutely twisted. I love it so. Oh, and you should check out my new fic, Cities of Cain. It's fun. Only the prologue is up, but it's going to be abso-bloody-lutely epic.

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Chapter Four

And So We've Come to This

If there was one thing Harry Potter was good at, it was surviving. He was an excellent Quidditch player, brilliant at Defense of the Dark Arts, and a decent student. But the one skill he told himself he had was survival instincts to rival those of an immortal.

Snape, back when he had been alive, had loudly professed that the only reason Harry wasn't dead (and quite unfortunately, too) was that he was too bloody stubborn to stop breathing, and that if he did stop breathing, he probably wouldn't die even then. It was too bad for Snape that the same could not be said of him, and perhaps too bad for Harry that he hadn't died.

The human spirit, except in rare circumstances, will fight to survive no matter what the odds. And Harry was nothing if not human, contrary to all of the rumors that had been circulating since a boy who could barely walk had defeated the greatest dark lord since Herpo the Foul or Salazar Slytherin or half a dozen wizards of chocolate frog card fame. So, Harry fought to survive.

Insanity is, if anything, a defense mechanism. When a person can no longer deal with the world, the mind withdraws from the world, so that he or she no longer has any need to. And Harry's world was very, very hard to deal with.

So, he did the only thing he could. He went really, really fucking crazy.

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"Go to bed Tom. Go to bed Tom! Tired or not Tom, go to bed Tom!" Harry cried triumphantly, pushing Voldemort away from him. 

Voldemort straightened his robes as he righted himself, glaring at the waif in front of him. "Pretending to be insane will not save you, Harry," he hissed.

"Riddle me, Riddle me, ree; a werewolf in a tree; a stick in hand, some flesh in throat; Aberforth Dumbledore has sex with goats!"

Voldemort could have lived quite happily for the rest of his life without that particular bit of knowledge. "Stop this foolishness at once, Harry. How dare you insult me! I will not be fooled by your wit. I will break you, will make you love me. Soon, Harry, soon you will want nothing more than to please me." His threat went unheeded, as Harry turned capers about the room, looking for all the gold in Gringotts like a fool without his motley.

"A Weasley, a Granger, a ten o'clock scholar! What makes you come so soon? You used to come at ten o'clock; now, you come at noon." Harry paused, cocking his head to one side. He rolled his eyes. "I happen to like rhymes, Hermione! But, fine, I will stop. It has been so long since I've seen you. Too busy studying for the NEWTs, eh? I don't understand why she bothers either, Ron. Quidditch is much more fun, and pays more than some stupid Ministry job. They're all a bunch of fucking morons, anyway. Who'd want to work in that hell hole?"

"The Ministry is gone."

Harry turned towards him, motioning for his two invisible friends to stay while he dealt with this unpleasant bit of business. "Of course the Ministry is gone," he explained in a patronizing voice. "Lucius Malfoy saw to that, all due to your orders, of course. What a mistake that was. He thought he could best you. The power was intoxicating. All those fools at the Ministry, all those idiotic sycophants who loved his money and hated the man. He enjoyed that killing far too much. You should never enjoy killing. That's what ruins you, really. Go to kill a baby boy, rock a bye baby, and find that death is a bastard. She doesn't like so many souls, coming to her all the time, all due to one man. So Death took one more, so that no more would come. She cried when she found the soul shattered, you know. You broke her heart. You broke Narcissa's, too. Killed the man who only wanted to be left alone. Really, is that so much to ask? Why can't you leave me the _fuck _alone?"

He whirled abruptly. "Don't you lecture me, mother hen! There was an old woman who lived in a burrow, with so many dead children, all in a tableau. I can cuss all the hell I want. It's stress relief. Merlin, I need a cigarette."

He reached into a school bag that didn't exist and pulled forth a slender cigarette. As he brought it to his mouth, a spark flared, and a slender ribbon of smoke curled from the tip.

"Such power..." Voldemort's eyes shone with lust. "A power the Dark Lord knows not, most assuredly. But know it I will.

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Voldemort hated shrinks with all the passion of one who has been called insane countless times. And yet here he was, ready to pick up the figurative notepad and settle Harry on the obligatory couch. 

Harry had power, and he was not too weak to see it. Magical power, that, to be honest, far outstripped his own. Power that could crush the fools weak enough to oppose him in a single, masterful stroke.

Power that he could, and would, control.

But first, he had to cure Harry. And, in the process, find the proper tools to control him.

"What year is it?" Best to start simply. He had to make the boy stop jumping to the past, had to make him exist in the present.

"The year of our Dark Lord Voldemort three," Harry mumbled around the ever-present cigarette in his mouth. Harry had been smoking for two days straight. He did not sleep, and Dreamless Sleep potions had no effect. Draught of Living Death had merely made him yawn.

"It is 2003."

"Is it really? Curiouser and curiouser. I suppose I don't live with the Dursleys anymore, then?"

"Who are the Dursleys?"

"My last living blood relatives, of course. You should know. You killed them."

"If I killed them, then how are they your last _living_ relatives?"

Harry snorted, blowing out a cloud of smoke that formed several rude signs. "You didn't kill the Dursleys, you great prick. I still have to return every summer, 'for my protection,' as he says. I don't mourn them at all now. I feel a bit bad about it, really. I went to the funeral. Ashes to ashes, fun to funky and all that shite."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes in exasperation. "It is 2003. Your relatives are dead. I killed them. They lived outside of London, in one of the home counties. "

"Gay go up and gay go down, to ring the bells of London town. Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop of your head. Chip chop chip chop, the last man is dead!"

This was more frustrating than listening to Quirrell's incessant, whining stuttering had been.

He couldn't help it. If he was going to play the shrink, he was not going to do a half-arsed job of it. Besides, the damn phrase had been rumbling about in his head for the past quarter hour.

"And how does that make you feel?"

Harry dropped his cigarette as his mouth opened in shock. His eyes grew very wide, and he seemed to be struggling with something. Then, suddenly, his face underwent a change, his eyes narrowing to mere slits and his eyebrows lowering dramatically. The cigarette smoldered on the stone floor, the light matching the flames of anger in Harry's eyes.

"What do you care how I feel? Nobody cares how I feel. Nobody loves me, nobody takes the time to know me. As long as I kill Voldemort, they're happy. Doesn't matter what they do to me, does it? I'm just a stupid little insolent fame isn't everything spoiled prick. I don't know a thing about potions, but potions doesn't matter, for I won't kill with potions. Go ahead, don't tell Snape to treat me fairly so I can actually _learn_. Hatred's good for Potter, gives him something to focus his magic on. Even better that Snape was a Death Eater. Teach him to hate them, hate them all. Oh, I hate them all. Everyone. So don't pretend to fucking care, don't pretend like I matter. I don't."

Harry's eyes, which had been filling with tears as he spoke, let run a torrent at the same time he opened his mouth in an ear-splitting shriek. The cigarette exploded in a burst of toxic carcinogens. The torches roared to life, filling the room with light and warmth. A wind howled, pulling at his robes and scattering the papers on his desk.

Voldemort stared at the sobbing boy before him with something akin to awe. An explosion of raw magic, uncontrolled, had done this. Imagine what would happen when that power was channeled, when a wand was used to direct and control the magic, when it was _intentional_.

"I told you once, Harry, that there are many similarities between us. Orphans, looks, Parseltongue, a certain affinity for rule breaking. And the fact that we were supposed to be saviors. I was supposed to defeat Grindewald, you know. There was a prophecy, one that meant I was special. But Dumbledore couldn't have me believing that, not if he wanted to control me. So he sent me to that orphanage, or at the very least insured that I never was removed from it. No one wanted poor little Tom Riddle, the freak. Just like no one wanted poor little Harry Potter, the freak.

"Did you ever think, Harry, why Dumbledore wanted to place you with your relatives? Surely dozens of families clamored to raise the boy-who-lived, the already acknowledged savior. It was so he would be your rescuer, and you would rely on him."

He was extrapolating, he knew, and the whole bit about him and Grindewald was simply ridiculous. But if he could only establish a connection with the boy, make him think he was loved, make him think he had something to be sane for, then, then the boy would be his.

Harry hiccuped loudly, and wiped his nose with the cuff of his robe. "Don't pretend to be my friend. I have friends, true friends. I don't need someone who only wants me for my power, for my fame."

"Of course not, Harry," he interjected smoothly, furiously thinking. "I was hoping we could have a much... deeper relationship than that." A relationship that would mean Harry was enamored with him, and would subsequently listen to whatever he said. A relationship that could invoke certain forbidden rituals, rituals that were never mentioned at Hogwarts. Rituals that were infinitely... pleasurable. "You're beautiful, did you know that?"

"No 'm not," Harry responded desolately. "I'm a freak. An ugly little scarhead freak."

"Oh, no, Harry," Voldemort purred, running a thumb across his cheek gently. "You're absolutely lovely. I've never seen so one as special, as absolutely ravishing as you."

"Really?" The boy's eyes were full of hope.

"Really." Really, his power was absolutely delicious.

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	5. Run Through the Raindrops

**So, this is it. The end, the final chapter. I am inordinately proud of this. It's my favourite thing out of all I've written. I can't stop smiling. Your reviews have all been wonderful. For responses, please refer to my livejournal. The link is the homepage in my profile. They're not up yet, but they will be soon; I'm going to write them right now.**

** Never fear, for though this fic is complete, I will have more Harry/Voldemort action soon. I am in the brainstorming process for an expanded version of my one-shot _Prisoners, You Are Free_. I do not know what it will be titled, or when it will be posted, but, please, look for it soon.**

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Chapter Five  
Run Through the Raindrops

"Harry."

The boy looked up from his book, emerald eyes blinking in confusion. Voldemort never called him by his first name. He called him his lion or pet or his favorite, little serpent, but he never _ever_ called him Harry.

Harry was the voice in his head, the one that nattered on about Hermione and Ron, singing nursery rhymes learned in the childhood he never had. Harry giggled when sad and cried when happy, and tended to rhyme all of the time, except when he was ranting. He ranted quite a bit. He was not at all happy that the little serpentine lion was sharing his powers, and his bed, with the evil Voldemort. Well, sometimes. Other times, he would cackle madly while he and Voldemort were fucking, urging the little serpent on with suggestions that, when listened to, led to a world of pleasure that neither had ever experienced.

"I'm not Harry." There. That was true enough. He shared a body with him, and a past, but they were two separate people. Harry was crazy. The pet was just slightly demented.

"Yes, you are. Somewhere, deep down, you two are the same." Voldemort was studying him intently, a look of puzzlement in his eyes. "One day, perhaps, you will realize this."

He just shrugged, nonchalant. He didn't particularly care one way or the other. It made as much difference to him as which scoring ring the quaffle passed through: either way, he still had Voldemort.

"Why did you do it?"

Why did he do what? Lose his mind? Kill Dumbledore? Fight so hard, only to completely surrender in the end?

"Do what?"

"Why did you return to sanity? I never promised you anything but love, a false love, and surely you were not fool enough to fall for that. Insanity is safety, and you left it all behind for the unknown. Why?"

The lion nibbled his bottom lip, internally smirking as he felt the lust swelling up from Voldemort. He didn't rightly know himself. "A false love is better than no love at all. To be touched, even if it is lust and not love, to be whispered to sweetly, lies as they are, to have something to cling to that never changes, even if it is torture... that is better than to have no love, no touch, no words, no anchor at all." He lidded his eyes, enjoying the feel of Voldemort's lips on his throat, of his hands on his chest, of his body pressed against his.

"Too true..." he murmured in between kisses, slowly moving down to the boy's chest, sucking and biting. The pet had to hold back a moan, the pain and pleasure mixing and creating something else entirely. This meeting of opposites, this... _oh_, that felt _so_ good... mixture of adversaries, this fight between matter and anti-matter, the war between fire and ice, and light and dark... He felt like a potion, simmering to completion as the last ingredient was added; they were a combination of ingredients that never should have been combined, and yet here they were. They were the... harder, _harder_... birth of life from volcanoes and tundras, the inexplicable joining of equals, of master and slave.

This was not making love, nor even having sex. This was fucking, plain and simple. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would kill, or torture, or do whatever else it was Voldemort wanted. He would do anything, so long as there was this...

Hot heat, friction. Their clothes were somewhere else. He didn't know where, or care. He roared, like the lion he was, the wordless cry ending in a hiss, like the serpent he was becoming.

And as they lay there panting, reveling in the mixture of ultimate, burning pain and ultimate, burning pleasure, he spoke.

"Someone told me, once, that you get wetter by standing still in the rain, rather than running, moving forward. That's what I'm doing, what I did. I'm running through the rain drops. I'm not quite so wet, not quite so damaged, not quite so broken. And I reach this- the dryness, the comfort, and the heat- all that much sooner."

And in his head, Harry sang.

_Rain, rain go away, come again some other day. If you don't, I don't care, I'm not wearing underwear_


End file.
